Tania Carver - The Surrogate

Phil raised an eyebrow, didn’t push it.

‘So, you’re from Colchester?’ she said. ‘Lived here all your life?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, hoping she would laugh. She did. Politely. ‘And you’re not married,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Is there… anyone?’

A curious look crossed her face. ‘I’m living with someone. ’

Phil’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’

Marina shrugged. ‘It’s… we’ve been together a long time.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s… I was his student. He was my lecturer.’ She shrugged. ‘At least we waited until I’d finished the course. Well, more or less. He was…’

‘A father figure?’

‘I suppose so.’ Before Phil could say anything more, she went on. ‘Maybe it’s time I… Sometimes I feel more like his…’ She looked at her drink, swirling it round in the glass. ‘I don’t know. So that’s me. What about you?’

Because Marina had been honest with him, Phil felt that honesty should now be reciprocated. He spoke. And Marina listened attentively.

He told her of the pain of being abandoned, of growing up in various children’s homes and foster homes until Don and Eileen Brennan took him in.

‘They gave me everything I’d been lacking. A home. A sense of belonging, I don’t know… a purpose.’ He smiled, took a drink of wine. ‘Sorry. I’m not very good at talking about all this. It’s… I can’t express myself well.’

Her hand was on his again. She smiled. ‘You’ve told me everything.’

Their eyes locked once more. Different colours but the same in every sense that mattered. They went straight back to his flat.

He hadn’t had time to fully take in her body before they began making love. The connection continued. Nerves evaporated as they quickly fell into rhythm with each other, complementing and second-guessing what the other enjoyed, linked almost by a carnal telepathy. It was hot, physical, intense. Connected by more than just bodily sensations.

At one point, her legs wrapped round him, pulling him into her as deeply as he could go, he had opened his eyes to see her staring up at him. She had smiled. He had returned it. And in that moment he knew there was something between them stronger than lust or physical attraction. It was stronger than any bond he had ever experienced. It thrilled him beyond description.

It scared him beyond imagining.

He came.

Later, lying spent and exhausted, their bodies intertwined, Phil tried to work out what had just happened. It was more than just a physical release. He glanced across at Marina. Knew without asking that she was experiencing the same thing. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. Again he was thrilled. Again he was terrified.

Early-morning sunlight eased round the curtains. They had barely slept. Phil pointed the remote at the CD; Elbow played gently in the background: ‘One Day Like This’. The euphoric love song establishing and nourishing the mood.

‘Aren’t you going to be in trouble when you get home?’

Her face was half in shadow. ‘Leave that to me.’

‘Okay.’

‘I don’t do this normally, you know,’ said Marina.

‘What, you do it abnormally?’

She gave him a shove. ‘You’re hysterical. I meant that. Jumping into bed with people.’

‘People? You want a threesome now? Foursome?’

Another shove. ‘You know what I mean.’

Phil laughed. ‘I know. Then why did you do it?’

Their eyes connected. ‘Why did you ask me out?’

Phil couldn’t bear to look at her; the intimacy was too naked, too knowing. ‘Felt right.’

‘More than right,’ she said.

Phil couldn’t reply. He just held her tighter. Felt the damage and uncertainty slip away, to be replaced by the beautiful, terrible peace of a love that reached down to his soul.

Held Marina like she was about to stop being real, turn into smoke. Knew she was experiencing similar emotions.

Knew that, whatever happened, his life would never be the same again.

Phil pointed the remote at the stereo, silencing Elbow before the album reached the track that reminded him of Marina. It wasn’t healthy: like picking a wound, stopping it from healing.

He drained his bottle, put it down. Looked at the half-eaten takeaway before him. He couldn’t eat. There was another bottle in the fridge if he needed it. He felt the start of a headache. Forced it away. He couldn’t indulge himself. He had to work.

Trying to push Marina out of his mind, he made himself re-examine the day he had just gone through. Close up his heart to her, compartmentalise his life and concentrate on finding a killer. And a baby.

He played back the events of the day, starting with the discovery of Claire Fielding’s body. Went over everything once again, looking for something they might have missed, attempting to make hidden connections.

Ignored the loneliness in his flat, his life.

Focused on his job.

Unaware that the song was still on his lips.

Marina stood at the window, glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, wishing it was something stronger. In front of her was a path, and beyond that the River Colne moved slowly past. Her house, a painted brick cottage with clematis climbing round the porch, was on the front at Wivenhoe, a quaint old fishing village now colonised primarily by academics working at the nearby university. The whole village had a relaxed, cultured ambience. A homely, safe place. But, putting the glass to her lips, Marina was feeling neither of those things.

Tony was cooking a late dinner. Nothing special, pasta arrabiata. It should have been Marina’s turn but he had taken one look at her as she entered and, handing her a glass of juice and kissing her forehead, declared he would do it. She had made a half-hearted attempt to refuse.

‘No,’ he had said, fussing around her, his reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose, ‘my last seminar finished at five, and since then I’ve done nothing but read and drink wine, so…’ He sat her down in an armchair as if she was an invalid and handed her a newspaper, then, pleased with himself for being so solicitous, retreated into the kitchen. She had smiled at him, accepted it. He was good to her, she told herself.

She had looked round the living room of their cottage, filled as it was with books, interesting one-off pieces of furniture, subdued lighting, unexpected pictures, plants and wall hangings. They had done that to show visitors and themselves that they were interesting people leading a full, rich life. The opposite of the house she had grown up in. But crossing to the window and looking out at the slow-moving, sluggish, dark river, Marina felt as if it all belonged to someone else and not her.

Music wafted from the kitchen – some chilled Brazilian beats Tony had picked up somewhere – along with delicious cooking odours that any other night would have had her stomach rumbling in anticipation. But not tonight. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, disappointed in herself that she had expected something that wasn’t there.

She saw Claire Fielding’s dead body. Julie Simpson’s too. The other two women. Phil had been right about the murder scene. It felt like they shouldn’t have been there. Like life had passed on.

Phil. She had planned what she was going to say to him the next time she saw him. Several times. But as the weeks had passed and life had ground on without him, she had resigned herself to never seeing him again. And perhaps, she had thought, that was for the best. She was back with Tony, pregnant, with a fledgling private practice. Her life had moved on. Or at least back. Back into her safety zone.

But here they were, together again. And she hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Because every time she thought of him, she saw Martin Fletcher’s face. The locked door. She felt the cold fear bubble and boil inside her once more, and then she thought of Phil. And it all rendered her speechless.